


Starbucks and Super Hunks

by CharWright5



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Christmas, Crushes, First Meetings, Getting Together, Love Actually References, Love Confessions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Security Guard Derek Hale, Stiles has a thing for guys in uniform, TSA Agent Derek Hale, again. sorry sorta, alternate universe - airports, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17052701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharWright5/pseuds/CharWright5
Summary: Stiles loved his job as a barista at a Starbucks inside of an airport, especially when he's introduced to the TSA's latest hottie in a black and blue uniform...





	Starbucks and Super Hunks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BFive0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFive0/gifts).



> A commissioned fic for Bubbles, who had a whole list of meet-cute AUs and I went with airport Starbucks barista Stiles and airport security guard Derek. The Christmas references towards the end were all me. Because...well, I'm me.

Working at a Starbucks located inside an airport meant Stiles was fortunate enough to see a lot of interesting characters. Not that he didn't back when he worked another location during college, but there was something about airport folk, travelers and employees alike that was just...fascinating and amusing, helping him to get through his most hassled and most boring days alike.

There were the self-important snobby bitches who thought themselves starlets, dressed in whatever fashion told them was _the_ travel outfit, taking Instagram and SnapChat shots of their drinks, mermaid logo on full display. There were the harried mothers with young screaming kids, hair a mess and clothes rumpled, coming in for an extra shot—or three—of kick-in-the-ass to survive their upcoming flight or recover from the one they'd just departed. There were frequent fliers of varying degree and tax bracket, all made obvious by the fit of their suits and the attitude when ordering. There were millenials with actual manners who patiently waited for their drinks and thanked him profusely, filling time by telling him about their travels back home for college break or overseas for a semester abroad or a trip to go meet up with a friend they'd made on the internet that they were excited to see for the first time. There were bleary-eyed zombies bumbling through orders as they tried to get something to wake them up from the red-eye they'd just went through or were about to go through.

He also dealt a lot with airport staff, from pilots needing a perk-me-up before flying or the stewards and stewardesses needed something to brace themselves with before dealing with the assholes demanding drinks or peanuts or a better pillow, all the way to the crews out on the runway tired from loading suitcases overfilled with crap as people tried to squeeze as much as they could into the least amount of luggage they needed to carry. He dealt with the managers, the higher-ups, the security guards, the TSA agents getting a bad rap, and his fellow retail folks having spent the day selling food, other beverages, books and magazines and tiny knickknacks all featuring something California related.

Yeah, Stiles saw a lot of people of varying types and backgrounds and reasons for being there and he pretty much always had a story to share at the end of the day when he managed to catch his dad on break and was able to actually talk to him on the phone. Most of the time it was about the colorful characters he saw, sometimes it was disasters behind the scenes with machinery or baristas or both. More than a few times it was about his own screw-ups, his dad laughing down the line and Stiles able to perfectly picture the way his skin crinkled around blue eyes alight with mirth and his head shaking as he was both unsurprised and unable to believe this was his son.

Stiles figured it was the former more than anything, a resigned mental sigh of “ _yeah, that's my kid alright_ ”. He'd always been kind of a disaster, worsening as puberty and hormones took effect, as his brain became more scattered and his limbs longer and his control over both slipped. Even in his early twenties, it was hard to rein either of those in at times—although he'd miraculously only ever had a couple cases of spillage happen early on in his illustrious career as a provider of caffeine and baked goods—his mouth becoming just as hard to wrangle. And while it had never gotten to the point where he was worried over his job security, he'd come close.

At least until he'd developed what was called his Retail Persona, that at times honestly felt dissociative more than anything, keeping customers even keeled and happy and hopefully not about to demand a manager over whatever perceived slight had gotten their travel panties in a twist that day.

After a certain point of working the airport Starbucks, Stiles had not only perfected that persona and become a highly valued and well-liked employee by both the cafe staff and customers also, but he'd also gotten to know a lot of the airport staff members who'd become regulars, if not by name, then by order. Argent was one of those whose names he actually remembered, partly due to his daughter also working the airport as a waitress in one of the restaurants whom his best friend Scott was constantly drooling over—quite literally at times—partly because the guy was intimidating as hell and Stiles feared him a little, but mostly because, for an older gentleman, the guy was damn hot. Piercing blue eyes, the right amount of scruff, just enough gray in the hair to be distinguished rather than old. The term “ _DILF_ ” got used in reference to Argent quite often, not just by Stiles but by other airport workers, to the point where he wondered if Argent wasn't aware of the moniker.

He had to at least be a _little_ aware, right? If not of his own reputation, but of that surrounding the security team as a whole, all of them ridiculously good looking, like a Hollywood version of what TSA agents should look like.

It was completely unfair to a disaster bi like Stiles, who spent way too many free moments at work ranking them—it honestly changed day to day—and wondering if he didn't maybe have some sort of uniform kink, thanks to them and the fact that his big bisexual awakening involved one of his dad's deputies when Stiles was in his early teens and the epiphany that, yep, men were pretty damn hot in a not-quite-objective, completely-not-heterosexual kinda way.

Not that TSA uniforms were all that impressive, not compared to sheriffs or cops or the military.

Okay, maybe he had a uniform kink.

And despite how lame and unflattering the TSA uniforms were, the hotties at his current job weren't helping to break him out of said kink, that was for damn sure.

Neither was the one Stiles spied walking into Starbucks as he wiped the counter down, Argent at the newbie's side, chatting away.

Holy. Shit.

The guy was around the same height as Argent, but broader, more muscular, the cobalt blue of his button-down shirt highlighting flat pecs and wide shoulders and round biceps. His hair was a dark black, just like his tie and required dress slacks, square jaw complimented with dark scruff. A sharp blade nose and cheekbones that could cut diamonds sat below bright eyes and dark bushy eyebrows that honestly shouldn't have been as hot as they were, but when added to the rest of the package that was a face clearly gifted by some form of god, it was nothing short of pants-achingly beautiful.

Stiles was in love. He had no idea who this guy was or where he was from or how long he'd be with them—considering the turn-around time for some TSA agents was relatively short and for all he knew, this new guy was hired solely as seasonal help for the upcoming busy summer they were more than likely about to endure—but he was in love.

And yeah, he could admit, he'd had more than his fair share of attractive customers grace the other side of the counter, and yeah, he'd considered doing the fanfic cliché of putting his number on the person's cup with a doodle of a winking face. But none of them really hit him _this_ hard, made his stomach tumble and heart take off and skin tingle all over.

Right, okay, they were headed straight for him, straight for his register, and he needed to get his shit together, needed to do his job, needed to... needed to _breathe_ for starters. Breathing was always good, helped with that whole living thing. He should try it sometime. Like that moment.

He shook his head to snap himself out of it and deposited the wet rag in its home under the counter, forcing the air caught in his lungs out through his mouth. This was no big deal, just Argent and a guy who was clearly the newest member of his team, a customer he'd served countless times before and a recently added one he'd probably be serving countless times from then on. Stiles could do this, had done this, will do this.

No. Big. Deal.

He plastered on his retail face, big friendly smile, chirping out a “welcome to Starbucks!” that he used on every hassled, harried face that came through the doors. The new guy cocked a sardonic eyebrow at him, seeming as unimpressed as Argent's flat face clearly was, the twosome drawing to a stop in front of Stiles' register.

“Don't use your retail voice on me. It's creepy.”

Wow, okay, totally not how he was hoping his first interaction with the latest security hunk was gonna go.

And totally not how he imagined that guy's voice to sound. He'd imagined something deeper, more bass or something.

Not that it wasn't pleasant. Not that it didn't _do things_ to Stiles that caused him to imagine how else that voice could sound in other situations.

Right, yeah, not going there. He had a job to do, as did this guy, and despite a few errant daydreams and fantasies, Stiles knew there was no way he could date someone he kinda-sorta-almost-technically worked with. Or at least, someone he worked _around_ in the same building as them. Or at the very, very least, someone who was gonna be a frequent customer, considering the number of other TSA agents who dropped in for a drink or snack or both.

No matter what, he dropped the act and the grin, shoulders relaxing as he slouched, no longer caring about perfect posture. “Right. What can I get ya?” he retried, his voice an octave or two lower.

Argent was the one to cock an eyebrow at that, never having heard Stiles' regular, every day voice, always catching him in work mode since their every interaction took place within the Starbucks and involved a drink order of some form. The new guy gave an approving nod, corner of his lips twitching minutely, and Stiles took it as a victory, mentally fist pumping.

“Just a regular coffee, black,” Argent gave his usual and Stiles rolled his eyes, no longer caring that it was unprofessional.

Still, he grabbed a cup and scrawled out the order, the same size as Argent always requested. “Don't see why you don't just drink what's provided in your break room then,” he muttered almost absently, more focused on the Sharpie in his hand and making sure his chicken-scratch was actually legible.

“Because if we wanted to taste something like that, we'd go out back and lick the tarmac,” the new guy deadpanned and Stiles peeked up to find his bright eyes focused on the board above the barista's head, a grimace on his face that said he'd actually tried said tar-posing-as-coffee, more than likely as some sort of initiation right. If you could brave the break room coffee, then terrorists were a piece of damn cake.

Or something equally as dumb, Stiles was sure.

Sometimes idiocy behind the scenes was what got you through your days.

An undignified snort left Stiles at the quip, ugly and embarrassing, and wide bright eyes flipped down in surprise, corner of the new guy's lips curling up once again. Right, trust him to be an ass who enjoyed other people's humiliation. Nice.

Still, the sight of it—and the hint of a dimple that Stiles spied through his dark whiskers—had the barista's heart pounding a little faster in his chest and his stomach flipping even more within his abdomen. He tried to meet the new agent's eyes to decipher their color but they flipped back to the board, flicking about as they took in the array of offered beverages.

“I'll take a venti iced salted caramel mocha with extra syrup, an extra shot of espresso, and extra caramel on top. Please.” The order was rattled off like a pro, like it was a habit of his and he had tons of experience requesting such a drink, perfecting the taste of it to his own liking. The last part was added on like manners had been drilled into him and he'd be disappointing someone—probably a parent, more than likely a mother—if he didn't use it.

Stiles stood stunned for a long moment before he snapped himself out of it, grabbing the appropriate cup and freezing a moment before remembering it all. “Iced salted caramel mocha with extra syrup, extra shot of espresso, and extra caramel sauce on top.”

“Yep.”

“Sweet tooth much?” he muttered as he scribbled it all down, eyes lifting to find a crooked grin on the new agent's face, eyes alight in amusement once more as he peeked out the corner of them at Stiles.

“Yep.”

“Huh,” he replied flatly, putting the cup down to ring up the order, Argent already taking his wallet out and gesturing that they were together on one ticket. “Figured you for another black coffee weirdo who had something against his own taste buds and enjoyed torturing himself by drinking Satan's piss.”

That earned him another unimpressed glare from Argent and another smirk from the new agent, Stiles eying his uniform to find his name tag so he could stop mentally referring to him as such.

_HALE_.

Hale the Incredible Hunk, his mind automatically dubbed him and he couldn't find it in himself to be mad or find it to be untrue.

Argent's debit card was swiped, receipt signed, and Stiles set to work on their drinks, Derek's taking longer due to the mix of ingredients and blending required. Argent's boring and nasty drink was simply poured from the carafe sitting off to the side, the pot mostly ignored, and then handed over with a grimace.

“Enjoy your cavities,” he quipped to Hale, the smirk returning to his beautiful face. “And good luck out there.”

He got a two-finger wave as the new agent sipped from his drink, both TSA men turning and leaving immediately after. And as Stiles stared after them, eyes fixed to Hale's very nice ass framed in black slacks, he thought of that old cliché about hating that someone was going, but loving to watch them leave.

Trust the guy to be gorgeous both in front and behind.

He was gonna make Stiles' job a whole lot harder.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hale soon became a frequent customer, although his drink choices alternated from day to day. It was always something sickeningly sweet though, with an extra espresso shot and an extra pump of whatever syrup was used to create it. Stiles teased him over how he must be his dentist's favorite customer and Hale quipped right back that his doctor also loved him due to the irregular heartbeat caused by an overabundance of caffeine.

It had taken Stiles a moment to figure out that he was joking and didn't actually have any sort of heart condition that the drinks were worsening, that Hale just had a dry sense of humor consisting of flat sarcasm, sardonic looks, and extremely expressive eyebrows.

When he figured that out, the guy turned out to be kind of a riot in his own quiet sort of way and their interactions usually ended with Stiles' face hurting from all the smiling and chuckling.

The agent dropped by every day he worked, sometimes with Argent, sometimes with another agent named Reyes, sometimes all by himself. Stiles preferred those times, able to keep Hale's attention to himself, rather than having to compete with Argent's all-business demeanor or Reyes' constantly running mouth—although Stiles had to admit, he fucking adored her and her wicked sense of humor and honestly wanted to be best friends with the blonde bombshell, too.

But when Hale was alone, he tended to linger more, timing his breaks for slow moments during the day when there was less traffic for him to inspect and less customers for Stiles to serve. The two of them would chat as Stiles cleaned equipment and counters and tables, allowing the barista to get to know the man behind the blue button-downs and black slacks. Turned out, Hale—whose name Stiles learned was actually “Derek”—was from the same area of northern California as Stiles, only an hour or so away from his hometown of Beacon Hills. He'd also been a TSA agent at LAX, but recently transferred due to wanting something smaller and less demanding, the stress of working at such a huge hub getting to him a little too much.

Stiles told of his own journey to where he was, spoke of his criminal justice degree and a desire to become involved in law enforcement in some way, but for now, he was paying the bills with money he made hooking people up with drinks and baked goods. Part of him felt a little lame for deferring his training, but a much bigger part of him couldn't really regret the choice, not when it meant he now had Derek in his life, becoming his friend and gaining an even bigger crush.

Because at this point, Stiles could admit that it was a crush, that it wasn't just the same physical attraction he felt for practically every other TSA agent at that airport. No, this went beyond “ _wow, that person is pretty, I wanna smoosh faces_ ”—although admittedly, Derek was _extremely_ pretty and Stiles very much wanted to smoosh faces and potentially other body parts. This went into a desire to hold hands and cuddle and watch dumb movies together and get into terrible pun-offs—of which they frequently did already—and fall asleep together and introduce Derek to his dad and cook him breakfast in the morning before they carpooled to work together and...

And Stiles was stupidly in deep with this guy and had no idea what the hell to do with himself. His free time became time spent fantasizing over Derek—both clean-rated and most definite NSFW fantasies—and imagining conversations where he'd actually find the courage to just... ask the guy out. Only he'd work himself into a nervous frenzy as the time ticked by until Derek's break and he was too anxious to form the words when the agent finally walked through the door, mind blanking out over how good he looked. Then Derek would order whatever diabetes inducing drink he was craving that day and conversation would start up and Stiles would relax, get lost in it, and not realize he'd missed another shot at asking until Derek had already left.

Part of Stiles honestly wondered if it wasn't some sort of sign from somewhere that he was just not meant to ask at all, that he should just satisfy himself with being friends. After all, pretty people tended to run in packs and Stiles most definitely did not belong in those groups so Derek taking time out to talk to him at all was something special he should be grateful for, that he shouldn't be greedy in wanting more.

Besides, it wasn't like Derek had made any sort of move on him either, although from what Stiles witnessed in the few glimpses he got of Derek, the security guard seemed to be a lot more friendly and chatty with Stiles than anyone else, be it co-worker or traveler. Chances were though that he was just making nice with the guy who made him his drinks so that his order was guaranteed to not get screwed up or spit in or something like that.

The free cookies he slipped Derek on occasion probably led to that, too.

Certainly didn't hurt.

Not to mention that being a TSA agent was a thankless job that came with more bitching and jokes at their expense than anything else and if Stiles was stuck dealing with people who didn't understand that “ _one bin per person_ ” wasn't a suggestion but a rule, he'd probably walk around looking like Grumpy Cat turned human, too.

Eventually Stiles managed to think himself out of ever making any sort of move on Hale the Incredible Hunk, resigning himself to friends and nothing more. He didn't try to rid himself of the crush or get over it, knowing it was pretty much impossible and that once he got fixated on something—or some _one_ —he obsessed over it, not letting it go, like a dog with a bone. The ten year crush on his now best friend Lydia proved that, romantic feelings only dissipating when they finally actually dated and it turned out to be a huge disaster.

Things would probably end in disaster with Derek, too. Pretty people belonged each other and each other only.

So Stiles kept to fantasies and daydreams and nothing more, time passing him by slowly then way too fast. A languid spring turned into a busy summer, then a hectic holiday season. As the Christmas decorations went up, air travel traffic increased and Stiles saw less of Derek, less of anyone outside of his fellow Starbucks employees. The surplus of travelers, as well as the increase of delays and cancellations meant Stiles was constantly on his feet either yelling out orders or mixing them himself, hurriedly cleaning off tables when they began to outnumber the tidy ones, dealing with an overflowing bathroom—again. Slow moments were few and far between and every night he went home with aching feet and sweat frozen to his skin, falling into a deep sleep full of dreams featuring whipped cream covering the ground like giant banks of snow.

He was also pretty sure he was developing a serious aversion to anything pumpkin flavored after having to deal more than his fair share of pumpkin spiced anything.

Just the sight of the muffins was enough to make his stomach roll.

Pavlov clearly knew his shit.

But the moments when he _was_ able to see Derek were like his own personal shot of espresso, revitalizing him and giving him a second wind. It didn't matter if their communication had boiled down to nothing more than drink orders and superficial “ _hey, how are ya?_ ”s, it was enough to keep Stiles going, that thing he needed to look forward to in order to survive the long hours of busy season. Every now and then, it looked like Derek was gonna stay, was gonna settle in against the counter or a nearby table, but then Stiles would be called away to help with something, clean this, take care of that, go to the back and grab more of whatever. He always apologized, Derek always waved it off, and Stiles always thought he saw a little flash of disappointment under the nonchalant expression Derek always wore.

Probably his imagination running away with him, that little hopeful spark that wouldn't quite die out and kept him holding on to his unrequited crush like an idiot. But he wouldn't be Stiles if he didn't set himself up for disappointment.

Unfortunately.

~*~*~*~*~*~

December brought with it the lowest temperatures Stiles could ever remember, phrases like “record lows” being used on weather reports, ice warnings greeting him in the mornings, his weather app giving him tiny little thermometers with blue filling and snowflakes to show that it was gonna be frigid as hell outside. His employee discount was used with increasing frequency as he made himself something hot to drink almost immediately after checking in, constantly needing something to warm up his insides and also thaw out his fingers so they were usable.

Snow began to fall more heavily throughout the country, more flights delayed or flat out canceled and the airport at times felt like a ghost town as people got into the habit of checking their flight status on their phone before schlepping it out to the airport only to find out they had to schlep all the way back home or to their hotel. Stiles wasn't sure if he preferred the hustle and bustle of being overcrowded and overbusy or the long, quiet, _boring_ stretches of nothing happening, making Christmas trees out of empty cups and straw wrappers, folding origami stars out of napkins for the top.

It didn't take him long to decide he preferred the slow times, since it meant Derek was able to stop by more often, and linger a lot longer. The short whiskers he'd sported when they'd first met had grown into a well-kept beard, a streak of gray visible in the black hairs that looked better on him than they ever did on Argent. His short sleeve button-downs had been traded for longer sleeved ones back in late October, a work issued black nylon jacket with fleece inner-lining joining a month or so later. The outfit looked dorky on anyone else—including Argent the DILF and Reyes the Bombshell—but like anything else, Hale the Incredible Hunk made it look good, was able to take something that honestly should've been a negative and turn it into another attractive facet of his beautiful package.

Then again, Stiles highly doubted there was anything on this planet that didn't look better on Derek than on anyone else.

It was just a scientific fact at this point.

Stiles felt like a disaster, his khakis wet at the bottom from the freezing rain that had fallen overnight and when he'd headed to work that morning, his green apron stained with chocolate syrup that didn't want to come out only to suddenly change its mind and spurt damn near everywhere, the hems of his black thermal damp with who knew what. Didn't smell like pumpkin though, and for that, Stiles considered himself lucky.

He considered himself even more lucky when Derek eyed the near empty cafe and the lack of a line leading up to Stiles' register, a small smile forming on his face at the sight, like he was trying to hide it. His eyes—which Stiles had long ago discovered were an amalgam of green, brown, gold, and gray—were lit up as he approached the counter and Stiles found himself once fighting back his own doofy smile, his heart trying to pound its way out of his too tight chest and his stomach making a good impression of a Russian gymnast.

Yeah, despite the layer of frost covering everything outside, Stiles' own body—and his crush—had yet to find its own chill. But at least he'd perfected the art of hiding it thanks to years of practical application, putting his skills to good use once more.

“Lemme guess,” Stiles began as Derek drew closer, contorting his face into an exaggerated version of a thoughtful pout, tapping his chin with his arm folded across his chest. “You're in the mood for a peppermint mocha with an extra shot of mocha, extra shot of espresso, and extra crush candy canes on top?”

The grin Derek had been fighting finally won, spreading across his face as he drew to a stop, hand automatically sliding his wallet out the back pocket of his slacks. “You got it.”

Stiles fist pumped before grabbed the appropriate cup—a venti, as always—and scribbling the order on it, feeling victorious again. It was a game that they'd created in the summer that had altered slightly in the fall when Derek switched from iced drinks to hot ones. The barista would guess what he was in the mood for and Derek would say whether he was right or wrong. So far, Stiles was batting a thousand, never having missed one.

It was a gift, a strange one, but a gift nonetheless, to be able to discern what the agent was in the mood for just by the look on his face. The extra shot of syrup was always a given, as was the extra espresso shot, but sometimes Derek looked so harried and rumpled—or as rumpled as his immaculate self could ever get—and two extra espresso shots were needed. The day before Thanksgiving had been a record three shots and even then, he'd been back a couple hours later needing another one, practically collapsing into the closest chair.

Stiles knew his feet hurt after a long day, but he was also able to take short breaks where he sat down, even if it was just on the floor behind the counter. Derek was forced to either stand or walk around and sometimes even chase a person down for whatever reason. His feet had to be killing him even more. Stiles figured he should probably get him a gift certificate for a foot massage or something.

“Got any holiday plans?” Derek made small talk as Stiles rang up his purchase, debit card at the ready, a seasoned pro at all of this.

The barista shrugged, tapping the appropriate buttons with one hand as the other wrung the back of his neck. “Nothing special. I think my friends are tryna plan a get-together but no one can settle on a date where we're all available. Got dinner with my dad on the twenty-third though, since we both work Christmas Eve and Day.”

Derek frowned and Stiles got the impression that it wasn't because his card was declined through the machine, thick fingers stabbing his pin number. “That sucks. You draw the short straw?”

“Nah,” he stated, waving his hand in dismissal. “Volunteered. My dad's always worked that day so his deputies could be with their families. Plus holiday pay is pretty damn sweet when you're the only paycheck coming in.”

A thoughtful yet agreeing hum left Derek at that, like he couldn't argue—which he couldn't really, since time and a half was always a nice consolation for being stuck at work on such a family oriented day—pocketing his leather bifold once more. “What about New Years?”

“Not working then. And unless Lydia throws together some last minute party as she has done in the past, my only plans are the comfiest pajamas I own, a whole lotta junk food, and a _Twilight Zone_ marathon on SyFy.” He set to work on the drink, but not before catching the small approving smile on Derek's face.

“That sounds pretty damn good to be honest,” the agent commented, voice soft in a way that Stiles wouldn't have imagined he'd be capable of, given the gruff mountain man lumberjack bodybuilder look he had going on. But if he'd learned anything about Derek over the last several months of getting to know him, it was that he was as complex and multifaceted as the hues in his irises and the stupid crushing part of Stiles could honestly spend the rest of his life getting to know each side and never grow bored.

The two began a conversation over favorite episodes and best recurring stars, Derek stating that he had a book featuring a lot of the original stories some of the episodes were based off of and Stiles professing an intense jealousy over it.

Their conversation drifted off as Derek sampled his drink and gave his usual thumbs up of approval and the sounds of Mariah Carey's _All I Want For Christmas is You_ seeped into Stiles' consciousness. Derek apparently picked up on it, too, his eyes raising to the ceiling to glare at the hidden speakers, probably as sick of the tune as Stiles was at that point, it now being only a week until Christmas, and Stiles had to hide an amused smirk of his own at their shared misery.

“Ya know, I can't hear this song without thinking of _Love Actually_ and that little drummer kid getting his heart broken when he realizes his crush wasn't actually singing it to him the way he believed she was,” Stiles spoke without thinking, belatedly realizing that his entire life could pretty much be summed up in that scene.

Well, that, plus the scene of Andrew Lincoln holding up those signs to profess his love to a married Keira Knightly. Granted he'd never confessed to a married person before, but the inevitable rejection and knowing what he longed for was never gonna happen? Totally relatable.

Derek let out a thoughtful hum before swallowing whatever was in his mouth and drawing his straw away, nodding in agreement. “Remember that scene with the guy and the cue cards?” he prompted and Stiles' heart froze for half a second, seriously believing Derek to be a mind-reader because out of all the scenes in that movie... “That one about, like, being honest at Christmas or whatever it is?”

Mind blown and struggling to keep up or even get past the shock of Derek referring to the exact scene Stiles had just been thinking about, the barista nodded dumbly, brow furrowed in confusion. The feeling only intensified as he watched Derek grimace and scratch at his beard in a nervous tick, obviously struggling himself.

Which...

Yeah, no, Stiles cut that train of thought off before it even left the station. He wasn't about to get his hopes up, only to end with a stocking full of disappointment and a tree decorated with the shattered remains of his heart.

Okay, overly dramatic, but still.

Derek swallowed hard, placing his drink on the counter before meeting Stiles dead in the eye. A grim sort of determination had washed over him, despite the nervous twitch of his lips and pull of his brows, his shoulders squared and eyes fierce.

“You wanna grab dinner with me after your shift ends? As a. As a date?”

Holy shit, okay, so Stiles, for the first time in his life, wasn't being gifted with an overabundance of rejection and disappointment and heartbreak. No, this was...this was his feelings _actually_ being returned and a confession being given to him rather than the other way around. This was...this was better than anything he could have ever imagined and all he could do was stand there gaping like a damn moron, unable to comprehend that this was _actually_ happening to him, that this was actually real.

But it was.

And Derek was starting to shift on his feet, clearly waiting on an answer, and the longer Stiles stood there silent and dumbfounded and mindblown, the more nervous the agent seemed to be getting.

“Yes!” he blurted out and the few customers that were in the cafe turned to stare, to find out for themselves what the hell the dorky barista was yelling about. But he paid them zero attention, as did Derek, too busy grinning at the sight of a huge smile spreading across the guard's face, crinkling around his shining eyes.

“Okay, good, cool.” Derek breathed a sigh of relief, grin still plastered on his face. “I've been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for months now, pretty much since you told Argent his drink was Satan's piss.”

God, Stiles loved this guy.

Not hesitating or waiting or thinking it over, Stiles leaned over the counter and pressed his lips to Derek's in a kiss, granting himself his own Christmas wish a few days early.

~*~*~*~*~*~

New Year's Eve found Stiles pajama-clad and surrounded by junk food, just as he'd predicted. Lydia had, in fact, thrown together a party at the last minute, but he'd lied his way out of it, claiming he'd picked up a bug from all the sick holiday travelers. Thankfully she'd bought the fib—most likely because it was incredibly plausible and had happened before, until Stiles got his shit together and learned that vitamin-C supplements were his best friend and strongest ally in the fight against cold and flu season—and he'd been left alone with his plans.

Well, not _entirely_ alone.

Because with him was an equally pajama-clad Derek, who'd brought them both Starbucks drinks and chocolate-covered caramel-coated popcorn—like the sweets addict he was—that turned into a game of who could toss the most pieces into the other's mouth. _To Serve Man_ played in the background and they both recited the famous line of “ _it's a cook book!_ ” along with the actress, exaggerating their dismay and horror at the discovery.

Laughs were had and kisses were exchanged, Stiles tasting the sweet syrup of Derek's drink on his tongue, unable to find it in himself to be mad when the agent confessed that Stiles had never gotten any of his guesses right, that he was too far gone on the barista to ever say he was wrong.

Although he also was quick to add that Stiles was the only barista who ever made his drink correctly every single time, a fact that left Stiles oddly touched.

As the clock counted down to midnight and Stiles got his first kiss of the New Year from the TSA's hottest guard, he found himself glad, for the umpteenth time, for his sometimes crazy, sometimes boring, always interesting job at an airport Starbucks.


End file.
